


Serendipity

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Mystrade Prompt Challenge Oct 2018 [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Conversations, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 19:31:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16352846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: For the Mystrade Prompt Challenge: A late night conversation clarifies some things for Mycroft, and allows Greg to ask for something he's wanted for a long time.





	Serendipity

**Author's Note:**

> Your dialogue: "Can we please?"
> 
> The circumstances...at Scotland Yard, at one AM
> 
> And you must mention...an ex-lover

“Call me if you need me to walk you through the evidence. Again.”

As Sherlock swept out in probably the most dramatic fashion Greg had ever seen, John shrugged at him.

“At least he’ll sleep now,” John murmured, as though that somehow helped Greg explain the last twenty-four hours to his boss.

Greg just waved one hand, too tired to protest as John followed Sherlock out. The door swung closed and Greg closed his eyes for a second, letting the pounding in his ears thrum with the sudden silence. Sherlock and John were the last to leave, which was unusual; Greg had insisted Sherlock ‘walk him through the evidence’ before going home. He still spoke at the speed of light, making connections in that voice, managing to sound both exasperated and bored at the same time, but Greg was wiser now.

Sighing, he turned back to his desk. Tape recording Sherlock had been a stroke of genius, by his own humble standards. Now he could listen back, making notes and a list of things for Anderson to do without Sherlock rolling his eyes at Greg’s perfectly normal human speed. But first he needed a coffee.

“It seems my timing is quite serendipitous,” a voice sounded from across the empty office.

Startled, Greg dropped his mug, heart pounding. In the second before his brain provided an identity to go with the voice, he panicked.

“Fuck,” he muttered, looking at the shattered remains of his mug. Ironic, really, that this should be how it broke, in the end.

“My apologies,” Mycroft said, stepping across the office to survey the damage.

Greg winced, hearing the surprise and trepidation in his voice. “Not your fault,” he muttered. “Just thought…you were someone else for a second.”

“I hope your mug did not bear sentimental value,” Mycroft continued.

Greg shrugged, crouching to pick up the largest piece of china. Something sharp flashed across his finger, hot and deep. He blinked, not understanding until a well of red blossomed across his skin.

“Fuck,” he muttered again, dropping the broken china, rising unsteadily.

“Do not move,” Mycroft said. A press of warmth to Greg’s shoulder – a hand? – quick footsteps into the kitchen and back, the heavy thunk of something landing on the desk to his right.

“Sit,” Mycroft murmured, the warm pressure this time urging Greg down. A chair was behind him. Christ, he was tired. Events weren’t quite real, too disjointed to be feel genuine. His hand was throbbing now and he winced as Mycroft turned it, examining the cut he’d managed to inflict on himself.

“I would have thought 1am was not so late for a police officer.” The words were soft and Greg wasn’t sure if it was real or in his head. He decided to answer it anyway.

“It is when you’ve been chasing Sherlock all over the city.”

Mycroft’s hands stilled for a moment before resuming their careful attention. The sterile wipes stung and he sucked air through his teeth.

“My brother is…energetic when on a case,” Mycroft agreed. “To the detriment of his health, I am sure.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “He’s lucky he’s got John. John takes care of him.” He swallowed down the sudden bitter, ‘Unlike me,’ that rose in his throat. Hardly the time or the place for self-pity.

“He does,” Mycroft said quietly, fixing the last of the steri-strips in place. “Your first aid kit is unusually well stocked,” he commented, collecting the rubbish before closing the heavy duty box. “Might I assume Doctor Watson had something to do with that?”

“Was always complaining he couldn’t patch Sherlock properly from here, kept dragging him home. Couldn’t have your brother bleeding out on my floor,” Greg said with a half-hearted grin. He examined his hand. “Neat job. Thanks.” It was still throbbing a bit, and from the placement, holding a pen would be a bitch.

“Take this,” Mycroft said, passing Greg one of the takeaway cups he’d brought in with him. “I will take care of the mess.”

Greg watched, amused, as Mycroft found the little brush and pan, sweeping up the shards of china with precise little movements. The coffee was warm in his hands, easing his fatigue as the caffeine flowed through him. The result was a contented awareness; he could concentrate now, if less than usual.

When Mycroft returned from washing his hands, Greg smiled at him. “Thank you,” he said.

“Of course,” came the reply as Mycroft turned the chair from the desk opposite Greg and settled himself into it. “Is it painful?”

“Not bad,” Greg replied. “Definitely can’t do any more paperwork tonight though.” He grinned again. “I should thank you for that, too.”

“Surely it is reasonable to retire home at 1am,” Mycroft said, his voice surprisingly mild.

“You’re still working,” Greg pointed out, a gentle tease in his voice. “This can hardly be a social call.”

Mycroft tilted his head in a way Greg knew meant, ‘Perhaps.’

“Really?” Greg asked. He could feel himself frowning. “I figured you were here to follow up on Sherlock. Maybe take this case off me if I’m lucky.”

“Hardly,” Mycroft murmured. He hesitated before adding, “When I entered you thought I was someone else.”

_Fuck._

“Yeah,” Greg said, feeling his face heat. He rubbed the fingers of one hand against his coffee cup, considering his next words. “My…I had a partner who used to…he drank. Not all the time, but if I worked late, he’d come in sometimes, get really emotional. He gave me that mug, actually, told me to think of him at work.” Greg shrugged. “Just made me feel guilty. In the end he needed more than I…more than I had.”

Realising he’d been staring into the lid of his empty cup, Greg looked up. Mycroft’s face was inscrutable, but his hands were clenched around his own cup hard enough to press the soft cardboard inwards.

As Greg watched Mycroft turned, one hand placing the cup carefully on the desk. Despite the calm expression still on his face, Greg could see the cup shaking, Mycroft’s tremors fine but noticeable. The calm expression was familiar; it was Mycroft’s thinking face. Something Greg had said was a surprise, perhaps, or at least something Mycroft had not anticipated dealing with right now.

“Your ex,” he said finally, voice barely carrying to Greg. “I understood you were married.”

“I was,” Greg replied automatically.

“Then…” Mycroft frowned, clearly still looking for the right words.

Greg waited, allowing the silence to collect around them. This felt important, for no other reason than he had never seen Mycroft wrestle with something some visibly. It was intriguing. Something he said had triggered this and it was…exciting, almost. His heart was certainly pumping a little faster.

“Without meaning to pry,” Mycroft said, each word spoken carefully, anxious eyes watching Greg for a reaction, “might I clarify something you said?”

“Yeah,” Greg replied, “of course.”

Mycroft swallowed, eyes still on Greg.

The atmosphere grew heavier, the air a little more difficult to draw into his lungs.

“The ex to whom you referred is…male.”

 _Ah._ Greg blinked, not knowing which way this was heading. Mycroft’s expression was still inscrutable, though there were other things…the slightly flushed cheeks, eyes wide, the fingers almost aggressively laced together – knuckles white…

“Yes,” Greg replied belatedly. “Tom and I knew each other at school. Ran into each other after Karen left. Had a beer or two, things happened. Didn’t last long, in the end.”

“But…” From the look on Mycroft’s face, the word had escaped without Mycroft meaning it to.

Studying him, putting all the details together, Greg’s analytical brain came up with a solution. The only solution.

“Oh,” he breathed. It was so simple, and now that he realised, so obvious. “Tom was my boyfriend. I’ve known I’m bi since school, kept it pretty quiet, especially in the Academy.” He looked squarely at Mycroft, waiting for his response, only now realising how important it was to him.

“Ah,” Mycroft said finally. “Thank you for the clarification.”

“’m single now, though,” Greg added.

“Yes,” Mycroft managed.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Greg asked. He was a little bit surprised that he was even having this conversation, but if he was right…his heart rate jumped at the very thought.

“I am not,” Mycroft said. His cheeks were definitely pink now, eyes averted. Encouraging signs, Greg thought. Hoped, really, now that there was a real possibility.

The silence stretched on again, and a wave of almost impatience rolled over Greg. He was tired – though more alert than earlier – and this careful conversation was too hard to negotiate. Coupled with his sudden realisation of how much he wanted Mycroft to be interested, Greg just wanted to _know_.

“D’you want to get out of here?” Greg found himself asking. “With me?”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft replied, startled.

“Can we please?” Greg asked. “Please, just be straight with each other.”

They stared for a long moment before Mycroft broke the silence. “Not straight, surely.”

Greg blinked, his brain finally connecting Mycroft’s words to his. He found himself chuckling at the dry humour.  “Not you either, then?”

“No,” Mycroft admitted. “Though my interest is limited to men.”

_Gay, then._

“So,” Greg said, a ripple of anticipation rolling down his spine as he framed the words. “You and me, then? I mean, I know it’s late, and it doesn’t have to be right…” He trailed off as Mycroft took his coffee cup, placing it on the desk, tangling their fingers together in a bold move that made Greg’s jaw slacken. Mycroft had avoided his injury, and his eyes were more honest and vulnerable than Greg had ever seen.

“Mycroft,” Greg breathed, looking up to find his vision filled with wide grey eyes, pleading, flicking between his eyes and his mouth. Mycroft’s breath whispered across his face, and Greg shivered, tightening his fingers as he leaned forward to close the gap before Mycroft could change his mind.

Nothing else existed; Greg’s awareness was reduced to lips (soft, gentle, careful), hands (tight, twisting, bony), pulse thrumming in his ears, breath whispering over his skin…

The spell was broken on a whine, a fumble of Mycroft disentangling his fingers. Greg’s heart almost stopped – was Mycroft pulling away? When his retreating lips were chased, hands cupping his face, pulling him in, Greg understood.

Mycroft wanted more. He was into this, pressing against Greg’s mouth, wanting more skin, holding him, checking he was real.

_It’s just as unbelievable for him._

Gently, Greg pulled away, one hand pressed to the back of Mycroft’s neck, sending reassurance as his forehead leaned into Mycroft’s, anchoring them.

“It’s 1am,” he said, voice deep with emotion and fatigue and arousal. “I haven’t slept in almost two days, and I have to be back here in six hours.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said, easing back.

Greg held him first. “No,” he said. “Come home with me. Lie down with me.” He felt his throat thicken, his resolve weaken. “Take care of me,” he whispered.

“Gregory,” Mycroft whispered back, voice breaking. “Of course.”

Greg sat there another moment, trying to collect himself, blinking hard before pulling back to look at Mycroft. “Let’s go,” he said hoarsely.

“Work related injury,” Mycroft murmured. “Surely you have medical leave owing.”

“Seriously?” Greg said, happiness threading through his tiredness, feeling his gaze grow fond as he watched Mycroft.

“If you wish,” Mycroft murmured.

“Definitely,” Greg said. “If it gets me out of that paperwork.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps this is worthy of further discussion. Shall I call a car?”

“Please,” Greg said.

When Mycroft was done Greg was waiting, coat on, ready to go. Together.


End file.
